It’s been a month since I did the hardest thing ever and said goodbye to Pork. I’m 35 and realized she was my longest relationship. Twelve and a half years of having her by my side filling up the space around me. Both with her company and her sweet little noises. So many snorts. And the void has simply been heavy.
On Feeling Lost
I never realized how many times I think about her throughout the day. Not even just think, but move in anticipation of her, too. The first time I came home and put my key in my door was a shock. I realized that the moment I do that basic task multiple times a day, I think to myself “I wonder where Pork is”. She was always in one place though, the bed. Just a matter of where on the bed and how comfortable she would look is what would vary. But it was always the bed. It never crossed my mind that I had those thoughts every single time I walked through the door. You don’t notice it until they’re gone. That first time was a gut punch and I just sobbed in my hallway not wanting to walk through the door.
The little physical habits I do are also unexpected. Anytime I walk past my bedroom, I look for her under the bed. Always. Or looking for her crooked face popping out from the bedroom door when I sit on the couch. I find myself looking in places hoping to see her little grey face, which was once jet black with a stark white stripe. But she’s just not there anymore.
Her bowls had even been picked up a few days before I said goodbye. Yet I still walk into the kitchen in such a way to make sure I don’t knock her water bowl. To say my life and routine and habits were built around this twenty-two-pound spitball is an understatement. And seeing and feeling the micro habits I have developed over the last decade have been soul-crushing each time they occur.
It’s only been a month, and maybe it’s getting easier. But all of this has made me feel so lost.
My routine feels thrown through a loop. And I don’t have any other distractions currently. Friends have tried to keep me busy with lots of walks, lunches and dinner dates. It’s helped, I suppose. Thankful for them. Family checks on me daily and they’re the people I cry to the most. As someone who doesn’t cry much in front of others, this has been oddly cathartic and comforting for me actually. But at home, it’s just me and my feelings. And between working from home and for myself, and being single and living alone, I feel a little lost.
Okay, a lot lost.
On top of that, the last month has also been busy with finalizing details of our 8th Annual Blog Societies Conference. Which has been a welcomed distraction to my emotions and feelings. But I got back from our big weekend and realized that it’s over now. There’s nothing left to do. It was a huge success and I’m so proud of it, but it’s not on my to-do list anymore. So as of right this moment, there is nothing on my plate. At all. Even in An Indigo Day world, nothing. As a creative and self-employed person, this alone can make you spiral and question everything you’ve ever done in your business. And it just feels compounded right now on top of feeling alone in my apartment with the heaviness of grief.
The future of blogging is changing and I’ve been wondering what’s next. Not that I’m quitting, but where will my focus turn to. What can be done differently? What will The Blog Societies become now that bloggers are so focused on social? Does it need a change, a shift or maybe a pivot? It all feels like it’s coming to a head. How long can you keep doing the same thing even if it’s working? Is this what burnout is or is it just grief putting a halt on my creativity at the moment?
I have a hard time just sitting and being in my feelings.
I prefer to worry about the future and preoccupy my mind with scenarios that have yet to play out in my life. And even if I try to sit in my feelings, the best way to describe them, is just lost. So then I go back to thinking about the future, and when I do that, it also feels like I’m lost trying to navigate the unknown all of a sudden. I’m hoping it’s just grief that’s amplifying these feelings and that time will help me see more clearly again soon. While 30 days have felt like forever, I know I’m a different person today than I was leaving the veterinary hospital without my best friend.
And I’m writing this in hopes I’ll look back in another 30 days again and see that I’m not so lost anymore. Because there has been progress that I can see. I know this, even if I just went through a dozen tissues writing this. There has been progress, even if it feels minuscule at the moment.